


In the Case of Over-Watering Phasers May Be Required

by Medie



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Plants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-31
Updated: 2010-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-11 09:14:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm an admiral in Starfleet, a <em>decorated</em> officer. I've survived torture by Romulans and a Klingon mindsifter, I am <em>not</em> scared by an overgrown houseplant."</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Case of Over-Watering Phasers May Be Required

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boosette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boosette/gifts).



> Written for [](http://boosette.livejournal.com/profile)[**boosette**](http://boosette.livejournal.com/) on the occasion of a bad day, written to her prompt Pike/Number One and the plant that took over their house when they weren't paying attention?

In his defense, he was _sure_ he'd watered it. Opening the door to the ranch, Chris stopped cold and, as he stared, tried to remember.

He had, right?

Yeah, he had.

"Maybe I shouldn't have." Fumbling in his pocket, he took a careful step back. Goddamn it, his communicator was in there somewhere. He patted that pocket, then gave up and tried the other. When that didn't work, he went back to the first and, sure enough.

His communicator, like most things technological, hated him.

With said communicator finally located and tamed, Chris tried to think of who he was supposed to call. He was _not_ telling her about this. He wasn't. A Starfleet security team was out of the question - if only because Nogura would laugh at him, and no way that was happening - but maybe a few off-duty --

Nah, she'd get wind of that too. Number One had a sense of these things.

Besides, she'd bought the damn thing to begin with. With that in mind, Chris tried to picture that call. _'Hi honey, how goes the pre-mission prep? Great, great, anything you need, we're all there, and oh, hon? Remember that little plant thing you bought on that station a few months back? It ate the ranch house. At least, I think it did. It's hard to tell, the outside's still standing, but the inside is, um, green, leafy, and I think it was reading a PADD. So, picked an XO yet?'_

He cringed and shook his head. Nope, that was definitely out. So was calling Colt. Sure, she should still be at Command and, being Colt, capable of scaring up the kind of expert he needed at this particular hour, but she was also Colt. Commander Colt of the eidetic memory and impressive if slightly alarming lack of conscience who would never, ever, _ever_ let him live it down.

Nope, Jen was out.

Boyce?

Nah uh. Same problem. Plus he'd call Cait and bring her into things and the whole thing would be over the sector in a few hours. Whole damn quadrant by 0800 tomorrow and he did not need the Klingons laughing at him over subspace.

Well, anymore than Klingons already did, but Klingons laughed at everyone and threw around references to 'puny earthlings' and 'Denebian slime devils' every chance they got. Picking a fight absolutely equaled saying hello in every known Klingon dialect the Federation had identified thus far.

Unfortunately, there were no Klingons - or their shiny, plant rending Bat'leths - in visual range which did not bode well for Chris. Not at all.

Sitting down on the front porch, he stared out at the hills that surrounded the house, listening to Tango's vocalizations - he was sure that horse talked, hell if he could figure out what he was saying though - and did his level best to figure out just what he was supposed to do.

Even if he couldn't call a security team, he couldn't just go charging in there with a phaser either. That was his _house_. It'd been in the family since before the Eugenics Wars, his grandmother and three generations of her ancestors would rise from the grave to punt him back to First Contact if he even tried.

Heaven and all its angels protect him if he struck an heirloom in the process.

He groaned. "No way am I calling Kirk." Not that he'd answer if he could. The Enterprise was mired in the same pre-mission muck as Number One and, no doubt, they were currently commiserating over Utopia Planitia's engineering staff at that particular moment.

Damn it, always were having more fun than he was.

He thought about calling Spock, but that wasn't fair either. Last few days on Earth, he and Nyota were either wrapping things up in San Francisco or they were visiting their respective families. It'd be a long few years before the ship got back this way and every second counted. Particularly, he imagined, in Spock's case. Amanda's family would be wanting to see him for sure.

No, he wasn't interrupting that for a plant. Not even _this_ plant.

Scuffing a boot against the dust, he watched it float upward into the air, scattering on the slight breeze. "This is ridiculous," he said to said dust. "I'm an admiral in Starfleet, a _decorated_ officer. I've survived torture by Romulans and a Klingon mindsifter, I am _not_ scared by an overgrown houseplant."

He looked over his shoulder, saw leafy green tendrils pressed against the window, curled around the edges in search of the elusive afternoon sun.

"Okay, maybe I am." After all, the last time he'd thought a plant harmless, the words tentacles and 'no permanent damage' had been uttered and, yes, Boyce, Colt, and Cait were still laughing about that one too.

That in mind, Admiral Christopher Pike edged a little further out onto the steps and had himself one hell of a satisfying pout.

Well, for as long as it took for the transporter effect to finish.

The telltale whine reached his ears about a second before it did and, when he opened his eyes, he found a familiar face staring down at him. Well, two familiar faces and one friendly strange one.

Number One pressed her lips together, vainly attempting to suppress a smirk as she looked down at him. "Lovely afternoon, isn't it?"

At this point, Chris had long since given up any attempt at pretense and shrugged. "I think we over-watered it."

"I think _you_ did," she corrected. "I followed Lieutenant Sulu's instructions to the letter."

"Lie--" Chris sat up, looking at Sulu. The kid had the grace to blush, but held his ground despite it. "When?"

"She was one of my instructors, sir," Sulu replied. "We discovered a common interest in xenobotany, and, well, I told her about this plant I'd been researching -- "

"And I located it on a station near the Klingon border," Number One said. "As it violated no regulations, I elected to bring it home for study."

Sulu edged toward the window, up the steps past Chris and chuckled. "Apparently Gertrude _really_ likes Earth's climate."

"Gertrude?" Chris echoed. "You named the thing?"

"Yes," said the stranger, young blonde lieutenant in operations red, "_Beauregard_ definitely has a mind of his own."

"Lieutenant -- ?"

"Rand, sir," she said. She joined Sulu on the front porch, leaning into him to get a better look at Gertrude/Beauregard. "I see your point, Captain. He's grown quite a lot."

"Any suggestions?" Number One asked, taking seat beside Chris.

They both looked over his shoulder at the young couple, now quietly conferring together.

"Well, the obvious answer is we'll have to take him offworld," Sulu replied.

"The question is getting him down to size," Rand said, frowning. "I'd suggest the good old-fashioned way, but I think that might hurt him."

"He's eating my house, Lieutenant," Chris said. "I'm not sure I'd mind." As both kids looked quite horrified at the suggestion, he shrugged and looked at Number One. "They've got five minutes and Boyce be damned, I'm calling in the phasers."

She didn't laugh, but he didn't mistake that to mean she _wasn't_ laughing at him. She was. She was just having too much fun to make it that easy on him. "You can't phaser a plant, Chris."

"Hell I can't," he muttered. "It's _eating the house_."

She shook her head at him. "It isn't eating the house, it's outgrowing the house."

"Oh yes, better. It's not eating the house, it's just going to overrun the entire planet." He made a face. "I'm going to get laughed out of the Fleet for this. The man that brought down Starfleet and the Federation with a gardenia. Can't you see the headlines now? The Romulans'll pull something laughing."

The Romulans weren't the only ones. She wasn't showing it, but One was beside herself with mirth. She was about thirty seconds from her version of a 'yes dear, of course dear' and then she was absolutely calling Cait. They were going to swan off to one of those little hole-in-the-wall clubs of theirs and drink Klingon martinis while Number One related the entire story to Cait. Cait, no doubt, would take many many notes and Colt would have the thing distributed - in triplicate - across half the quadrant by morning. On the Klingon chancellor's desk by mid-afternoon.

"I hate my life," he said. Whined. Either way, he made it a vocalization and One might have audibly snickered.

She slid off the step, pulling him with her. "Lieutenants, I trust the situation's in hand?"

"It's in something," Sulu said, tapping a window. "We're fine, Captain."

"For now," Rand added. She wasn't doing near as well at hiding her mirth as Number One, but she was trying and Chris would give her credit for that. Mercy was a fine trait to cultivate in a Starfleet officer. She'd go far with that attitude.

He fell into step with One, steadfastly refusing to look back and have the laughter in Rand's eyes ruin the illusion for him.

"Where are we going?" he asked, letting the house and its alien invader slip to the back of his thoughts.

"Somewhere," was all One said.

"Somewhere?"

He'd never been good at leaving well enough alone.

"Somewhere _private_."

"Oh." A second and it sunk in. "_Ohhhh._."

She looked at him. Her eyes intermixed with affection, amusement, and quite possibly more than a little exasperation. "And much of our current predicament becomes clear."

"Oh, sure," Chris sighed, "blame me."

She didn't answer that, but then again, a second later he didn't care. Not when she tugged him behind the barn and nimble fingers went to work on his uniform. Hang the house and Gertrude/Beauregard, Number One and the barn suited him just fine.


End file.
